This is how the Winter Soldier wakes -
by tolieawake
Summary: This is how the Winter Soldier wakes – to cold and fear (because he knows it then,before they take it away), and pain. Breath seizing in his chest, eyes blinking against harsh light and ice running through his veins. Thoughts grasping for something, anything, something to tell him who he is (and then they take that away too). But this is how the Winter Soldier *wakes* -


This is how the Winter Soldier wakes – to cold and fear (because he knows it then,before they take it away), and pain. Breath seizing in his chest, eyes blinking against harsh light and ice running through his veins. Thoughts grasping for something, anything, something to tell him who he is (and then they take that away too).

But this is how the Winter Soldier _wakes_ -

He is lying in the snow, sniper rifle braced against his shoulder as he stares through the scope. The snow is melting around him, soaking into his clothing. His skin is chilled, but he ignores it. Breathes in and out.

Below him, a crowd moves, ebbing and flowing as they pour into the small building. In his mind's eye, he can see his target. He doesn't know anything about his target, who he is, why he needs to die. Simply that he is the target.

But that doesn't matter, the lack of knowledge. You have to know you are missing something in order to miss it, and he only knows what they tell him. What they make him into. Nothing else.

He knows the face of his target. Knows how to squeeze the trigger. Knows what the rifle will feel like as it recoils against him. Knows aim and breathe and pull and leave. Knows where to meet his handlers for pickup after the op.

He knows his target will be at this party. He doesn't know what the party is for. Doesn't know who his target is. Doesn't even know where he is. That is irrelevant.

All that matters is the mission.

So he peers through his scope, scanning the crowd for his target. And then he freezes.

In the middle of his scope, seemingly almost near enough to touch, and yet impossibly far away, he sees something he knows.

It is not his target. It is not anything he knows.

And yet he _knows_.

There are two men, standing facing each other at the front of the building. They are holding hands, smiling, and one man is placing a glinting golden ring on the finger of the other.

Before him, the image fades, washes out, the figures shift and shrink, until he is staring at an image he _knows_, all in greys and blacks. Two men, facing each other, smiling, one placing a ring on the hand of the other.

And so, for the first time in decades, the Winter Soldier _wakes_.

He leaves his rifle behind in the snow (it is not needed). He doesn't make his rendezvous point (does not even try).

He is the Winter Soldier. He wakes to cold and fear and pain. He knows only what they tell him, what they make him into. There is nothing else.

And yet there is.

Because this is something he _knows_.

* * *

He tracks the image down, eventually, in a place he does not know (but he knows more than when he started, experiences jumbling together as he tries to make sense of the world when he doesn't know who he is – doesn't even know that he doesn't know, doesn't know to want, not yet).

It is a building, and it is full of images of various kinds. There is no like or dislike as he looks at them – they did not make him to feel, or think, just obey.

The image he is after is in a back room, surrounded by a few others.

It is a drawing, lined out in charcoal, edges smudged and softened. For a moment, he knows what fingers look like smudged in grey, a spot dark against the curve of a nose (they are not his fingers, not his nose), and then it is gone again.

There is a plaque by the image, giving its name.

_Two men exchanging vows, _circa 1930s, artist unknown.

It is not the name he thinks when he looks at it. There is another name in his mind, whispering in a voice he _knows_, even when he does not know any voices.

"If we could," the voice says. It is wistful, sad and happy, all at once. It is not a title for the image, he knows, and yet at the same time, it is what the image is – and in that way, it is its name.

_If we could_.

He reaches out, hand hovering above the glass that separates him from the image. He wants to touch.

He _wants_.

He cannot remember when last he wanted, does not even know what it is to want, but he wants this. His breath is harsh in his lungs, and there is ice in his veins, and his mind _hurts_.

He is cracking, breaking open, but there is nothing left inside, nothing to break open or out. There is nothing but a charcoal picture on the wall in a gallery in a place he doesn't know. Nothing but dark lines of charcoal on a piece of scrap paper, and the warm glow of the afternoon sun across frail shoulders and a bowed blonde head. Nothing but pain and fear and _want_.

He _wants _this.

There are two men in the picture – one taller, with dark hair and smirking eyes and a cocky smile. The other is smaller, body frail, hair light and falling into his bashful, happy eyes.

He is the Winter Soldier. All he knows is what they tell him, what they make him into. They make him, again and again and again, into a weapon. So this is what he knows.

He knows that, if others (if they) looked at this image, they would see a frail young man, easily broken. But he is the Winter Soldier, and when he looks he sees strength. He could not explain how or why, but he _knows_ strength when he sees it.

Strength and warmth and a bright quirk of lips into a smile, the soft huff of a laugh.

_This man_, he thinks, _would be a worthy opponent_.

But that sits wrong, because this man is not an opponent. They are not enemies (everyone is his enemy, this is what they have told him, what they have made him into).

_This man_, he thinks, _would be a worthy ally_. (He is the Winter Soldier, he does not have allies, does not know what they are).

He looks at the charcoal and sees the bright splash of sunlight across a tiny room, smells rain and smoke and the gentle waft of something flowery (he does not know what flowers are).

He looks at frail shoulders and sees them shift, filling out, stretching broad and strong as the heart beneath them.

He sees the frail man getting up again and again and again.

Sees softly quirked lips, a bright smile, and eyes that sparkle and dance as they tease him.

He _wants_ and it _hurts_.

He thinks his heart is breaking (he did not know that hearts could break).

* * *

This is how the Winter Soldier wakes – in a small, run-down room. The floor is cold concrete beneath him, seeping through his clothing. The walls are broken and rotted wood, rattling in the wind. Moonlight scatters across the ground through cracks in the roof.

In his hands there is a drawing, lined out in greys and blacks, harsh lines and gentle smudges. Two men face each other, smiling, as the smaller man places a ring on the hand of the taller.

The smaller man is frail only in body. His heart is large and big and _warm_. His smile is bright and lights up the room. His eyes sparkle and dance when he teases him. He never backs down from a fight, always helps where he can, and does not see his own worth.

The taller man is his friend.

* * *

This is how the Winter Soldier wakes – on the dirt in a clearing, under a bright sunlit sky. His back is to the large trunk of an oak. His legs are numb and his fingers stiff. His nose is cold. Above him, leaves rustle in the wind, whispering secrets he cannot catch.

In his hands there is a drawing, lined out in greys and blacks, harsh lines and gentle smudges. Two men face each other, smiling, as the smaller man places a ring on the hand of the taller.

The smaller man has blue eyes and blonde hair. He traces lines on paper with an ease which the Winter Soldier envies (he does not know what envy is). He always gets charcoal on his fingers when he draws, and across his nose when he reaches up to scratch at it. He likes to draw in the sun, hunched over his paper, tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

The taller man is his friend. Has always known him. The taller man is cocky and smug and struts when he walks. He laughs and smiles and claps the smaller man on his shoulder, hand lingering.

The taller man is his protector.

* * *

This is how the Winter Soldier wakes – the floor is moving beneath him, rattling his bones, as the train rushes over tracks in the night. He is slumped against the side of a storage carriage, piled up boxes surrounding him. There is hunger in his gut and dirty strands of hair edge his vision. He is travelling somewhere (he does not know where).

In his hands there is a drawing, lined out in greys and blacks, harsh lines and gentle smudges. Two men face each other, smiling, as the smaller man places a ring on the hand of the taller.

The smaller man's name is Steve. He is a punk who refuses to back down from a fight. He is small and thin and coughs in winter. His breath wheezes in his chest and sometimes his lips turn blue from the cold. His feet are like blocks of ice at night and shivers wrack his body. His skin is pale and smooth. He will never give in.

The taller man is a jerk. He smirks and swaggers and dances and always returns to the smaller man at night. He is warm in the dark when they curl up together and spends his days working down at the docks so that they have enough money to eat. Works extra in winter so they have money for medicine. He has two flesh hands that trace over the smaller man with ease and care and familiarity.

The taller man is his lover.

* * *

This is how the Winter Soldier wakes – the apartment is bare and empty around him. There are cracks in the walls and floor, mould creeps along the edges of the roof. The furniture is gone (he knows where it would sit). A tap is dripping, wind whistles through the cracks in the walls. It smells of mould and age.

In his hands there is a drawing, lined out in greys and blacks, harsh lines and gentle smudges. Two men face each other, smiling, as the smaller man places a ring on the hand of the taller.

The smaller man's name is Steve. He used to be smaller, but is now taller than the other. His hair is still blonde and his eyes still blue. His body now reflecting the man within. His hands are large and sure as they touch the taller man. His mouth spreads easily into smiles. He wears a uniform – red and white and blue – and carries a shield. His hand is reaching out.

The taller man's name is Bucky (James Buchanan Barnes). He fits easily back against Steve's chest, and listens to him breathing at night. Sometimes he has nightmares. He is a soldier. He carries a sniper rifle. His job is to protect Steve. He would follow Steve anywhere.

Bucky is Steve's.

* * *

This is how the Winter Soldier wakes – in a soft bed spread generously with sunlight, streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows making up one wall. His head is on a pillow, turned to one side. A sheet drapes over him, soft and flushed with the warmth of the body next to him. He is face to face with the smaller man (who is no longer small). Steve's eyes are closed, so close that he can trace every eyelash, feel every breath washing over his own lips. He smiles.

In his hands there is a drawing, lined out in greys and blacks, harsh lines and gentle smudges. Two men face each other, smiling, as the smaller man places a ring on the hand of the taller.

The smaller man's name is Steve. Steve is lying beside him, eyelids fluttering as he wakes, smile soft and sleepy on his face (this is something he _knows_). "Hey Buck," he mumbles.

The taller man's name is Bucky, and he is Bucky.

* * *

This is how the Winter Soldier wakes – to frantic hands tracing over his face, his chest, his arms, his hair, his lips. To choked off words and furious shaking and hugs that threaten to break his heart once more. To soft kisses, littered with abandon across any available skin. To laughter and watery smiles and exclamations of surprise and delight. To whispered apologies and fierce declarations of love.

Steve is there. Steve is there and happy to see him. Can hardly believe he is alive.

His name is Bucky, and he is Steve's, and he is home.

* * *

A/N:

I'm sorry. This was meant to be a pile of light, cracky fluff. Turning the idea of my other fic (that no-one told Captain America that gay marriage is a thing now) upside down, and making it the reason for Bucky being able to defeat the Winter Soldier programing (the power of lurve!).

But then feels happened. And so you got this instead.

Also - this is not my normal style, and was a bit of a surprise to me. I have a feeling it has been influenced by a fic I read recently (all the fics have been read in the wake of watching the new movie, and yet there are still so many more to read). I can't find it - so if you think this style reminds you of a particular fic - please link me, so that if I am right I can give kudos where they are due. Thanks.


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